Sally Bishop eBook

thousand years in the making; they are the women at
whose breasts are fed the sons of men. The whole
race has been weaned by them; every country has been
nursed into manhood in their arms. But they are
too normal or they are too much a class to have men
sing of them. There is not one mother of children
in the vast calendars of history who stands out now
for our eyes to reverence. Upon the stage of the
world their part is played, and what eye is there
can grasp in comprehensive glance the whole broad
sweep of power which their frail hands have wielded?
Only upon that mimic platform of fame, raised where
the eyes of all can watch the figure as it treads
the boards, have women stood apart where the recorder
can jot their names upon a scroll of history for the
world to read. There is no virtue essential here;
virtue indeed but adds a glamour with its absence.

There is some subtle attraction in a Catherine of
Russia or a Manon Lescaut which tempts the cunning
lust of men to cry their praise for the nobility of
heart that lies beneath. But what elusive charm
is there in the mother of children whose stainless
virtue is her only personality? None? Yet
to the all-seeing eye, to the all-comprehending brain—­to
that omniscience whom some call God, be it in Trinity
or in Unity, and others know not what to call—­these
are the women who lift immeasurably above fame, infinitely
above repute.

So, therefore, rob them of their virtue and you prize
a jewel from its setting, you wrench a star from the
mystery of the heavens and bring it down to earth,
you filch from the generous hand of Nature that very
possession which she holds most dear. For without
virtue, these women are nothing. Without virtue,
you may see them dragging the bed of the streets for
the bodies they can find. It is the last task
which Nature sets them—­bait to lure men
from the theft of that virtue in others which they
can in no wise repay.

And this very virtue itself needs no little power
of subtle comprehension to understand; for intrinsically
it is a fixed quality while outwardly it changes,
just as the tide of custom ebbs or flows. Intrinsically
then, it is that quality in a woman which breeds respect
in men—­respect, the lure of which is so
often their own vanity. And the pure, the chaste,
the untouched woman, whether it be vanity or not,
is she whom men most venerate. Of these they make
mothers—­for these alone they will live continently.
And however much love a man may bear in his heart
for a woman whom some other than himself has possessed,
the knowledge of it will corrupt like a poison in
the blood though he forgive her a thousand times.